Author Note:
I am Glaydah Namukasa, a Ugandan. I am a midwife/ writer and a member of
the Uganda Female Writers' association, as well as a student in the
crossing borders writers' scheme by the British Council. My publications
include a short story and a poem in the FEMRITE journal, and two stories
on the toowrite .com website. I am working on my first novel, The Deadly
Ambition, which was also considered for publication by FEMRITE. My short
story, Death Wins Again was also accepted for the New African Writers'
Anthology. [ I love Jesus and i love delivering babies alongside
writing.]

He stares at the long stretch of elephant grass ahead. Far beyond, he
glimpses the hedge where the field connects to the forest. He imagines
that point where light switches to darkness. That thick forest: his
promising harbour.

Tinkles fill the air as hoes hit stones buried in the ground. The
noise is unending because the ground is stony, and an unbent back calls
for a whip. His eyes flit from side to side. He sees the bent backs of
his fellow prisoners; bare and shinning charcoal black in response to
the blazing sun. He glances behind. The guard is seated on a mango tree
stamp, his rifle slung on his shoulder. Goodness! The guard has already
noticed his straight back.

"You!" The guard snaps.

He is aware that ‘you’ is him. He casts a furtive glance at his hoe
blade. The stone, his weapon to freedom, is secure. The other two guards
are a distance away. His fellow prisoners are no threat. Over his
shoulder, he sees the guard saunter towards him. The bowlegs. The
protruding stomach threatening to push through the uniform. The round
face, hot and grim as he tips his hat brim as if to let the wind cool
his forehead.

"The rest go on." The guard is approaching. "I am talking to this
fool."

It’s time to act. Time to pave way for his freedom. He takes one look
in the direction of his promising harbour. It’s waiting for him. Opening
its arms to welcome him. To shelter him. Shut him away from the cruel
guards. He swoops down for his weapon and casts it at the approaching
guard. Well aimed.

He dashes through the elephant grass blind to thought. He has to get
away. He can’t be caught. Never again. He is going home to his wife –
and child. The child he has never seen. Gunshots fill the air. They
mingle with the chorus of voices. The tall elephant grass cuts across
his face and bare torso. Thorns pierce his feet and worsen the already
existing wounds but he has to get away.

He smells home: Tonto as his wife hands him his gourd. He
smells fish smoking on the fireplace. Yes! Home. He races. The harbour
seems miles away. He wishes to dive into it, or to duck under the thick
undergrowth and be lost to the world.

Noises: pursuing footsteps, bullets – perhaps; piercing through the
grass, heading for his head or chest. He has to race on. He has to outdo
the bullet. He has to outdo light, time – yes time. Time ran fast – so
they said, but he has to disprove the saying. If time ran fast, why
would the ten years he spent in prison seem like decades? He has to beat
his wings hard. He has to leap into space, soar in the sky like an
eagle. He has to get away.

The hedge unfolds ahead of him like the great walls of a prison,
high. It seems to grow higher as he approaches. It rises like it would
touch the heavens but he has to jump over. He takes a stance and hauls
his body in the air. His right leg entangles in the hedge top. As the
left leg follows, he charges down the band of thick shrubs. A tingle
grabs his left thigh. The foot lands on a broken bottle piece. Blood
spurts from the punctured thigh. It flows along his leg and mingles with
that from the sole of his foot.

He struggles on. It’s long since he has ever felt physical pain. The
years in prison transformed his body into a log. Now, he is inured to
physical pain. It’s the emotional pain he was left with. It’s his heart
that got ripped and ripped each passing second: the pain of missing his
wife – and child. The child he has never seen. The pain which started
ten years ago, and now as he fights his way through the thicket to his
harbour, he can still see himself that fateful night. The gears of time
go into reverse. The events unfold in his mind like they happened
yesterday.

¨¨

That fateful night, Edna’s labour pains began at 9.00 p.m. His wife
Edna, at sixteen, having their first baby. The traditional birth
attendant had advised she delivers in hospital but hospital was twenty
miles away. That night he rushed to Mukasa, his neighbour, and borrowed
a bicycle. "Take the murram road," Mukasa said, " you will be in time I
am sure. Bikira Maria be with you."

Edna’s intensifying pains drove him to take the shortest route
through Watta forest: the one Mukasa had advised against. The darkness.
The bumpy road. The eerie voice of the forest: crickets chirped and
frogs croaked like they were competing, and Edna’s growing pain! In the
middle of the forest, she could not keep on the bicycle. She screamed.
She trembled. She yelled and got reverberations of her yells.

"Edna, my dear," he said. He raced ahead a few steps then back.
"Edna." He was in the cruellest of dilemmas. How would he leave his wife
in the forest? And yet, what could he do to help her? "I am calling for
help, Edna... Try… to be… calm…" How could she be calm when she was in
pain? "One minute, Edna." He grabbed the bicycle and cycled back to
fetch the birth attendant. As he struggled his way to the road, he
collided with a figure and they thudded down. When he got up, he came
face to face with five men. One of them clouted him across the cheek.
The force made his head churn like swirling dust. He dropped
unconscious.

He never knew what happened next. In the morning, he found himself in
prison. Hell. A deep pit: deep down where he could never see Edna again.
Convicted for innocence. Taken as a machine for work. Imprisoned to
close the world on him: the world of his wife and – child. The child he
would never see perhaps.

It’s that pain that has held tenaciously and ripped his heart apart
day by day. Now, what is physical pain that comes and goes?

The late evening sun welcomes him to his harbour. He’s lost his
pursuers. When, he cannot tell. Must have been during the long struggle
through the shrubs. As he enters the forest, it dawns on him that it
cannot be a harbour. How could he have hoped? It’s the forest that
handed him over to five men. To the iron arms of prison! Yet, as he
struggles on, he realises it isn

’t
just a forest. It’s
his harbour from the pursuers.

He knows the evening sun will soon say goodbye and hand him over to
the grip of darkness. He hates darkness. He hates forests. He hates men.
Waves of tiredness wash over him. He’s
sure it’s
the fatigue due to the long struggle for escape. He approaches a fallen
muvule trunk and sits down on the low end. Is Edna still alive? Did she
survive the experience of child birth? Did she survive Watta forest? He
feels all the strength drain from his body and tears well in his eyes.
Edna. If she is dead, what will be the reason for his escape? "She’s
alive!" he tells himself, "I am going back to her."

He blinks hard and stares at the wound on his thigh. It’s a deep
wound. The blood is congealed and dark but it will heal. Physical wounds
always heal. His fingers roam the scars on his legs. He lifts his palm
and feels his face. Scars. Results of daily battering and assault.
Torture for a crime that will never be told. Anger heats up and
transforms his heart into rock. Yet rock that cracks as he thinks of
Edna. Will she recognise him? Will she accept him – love him again? He
is going back to her but is she still single? Isn’t she married again?
Dread envelops him. He drowns in it. He sinks deeper and deeper. He is
drifting out of himself.

He jolts up. "My wife is not married," he says to himself. "She is
waiting for me." He gathers his torn khaki shirt and clutches it around
him. He moves on with a determination that overpowers tiredness. Kawule
shrubs worsen the tattered khaki shorts. He tears off the lower part of
the short to mid-thigh level. He fights his way through the thick
undergrowth ignoring pricking thorns. The voice of the dusking forest is
so sharp in his ears: chirping crickets and croaking frogs, monkeys jump
on and off trees – saying goodnight to each other perhaps.

A sudden breeze streams. It wafts along the sweet scent of the wild
roses. The scent reminds him of home. Edna had planted red and pink rose
patterns in the compound. Roses that sweetened the air they breathed in
the evenings.

The night walk is peaceful because he is going home. It’s safe too
because wild animals are better than people. If you do not bother them,
they do not bother you. If they are satisfied they do not bother you.
Definitely they spent the whole day hunting so they cannot be hungry.
Besides, animals are friendly and fair. The enemy is a fellow human
being, man.

Anger stirs in his heart like foaming turbulence of a waterfall. He
hurries on, bracing himself to rise above any obstacles he meets in his
way.

An owl hoots nearby. He halts. The owl is just on a tree in front of
him. He ignores the sparkling eyes of the owl and moves on. He’s not
afraid of the darkness that has encroached on the forest. Not afraid of
his surroundings. It’s only the terror of being caught. His feet are
sore, legs scratched and pierced. He can feel the blood on his lower
legs form into a lake. The lake forms into rivulets along his scarred
skin. He breaks into a run. He stumbles over a tree stump and collides
with a tree. His left foot gets entangled in a wandering root. He swoons
down, face first. He can’t go on.

¨¨

The early morning sun streams through the treetops. Leaves dance to
the tune of the breeze. The dancing leaves pespire and beads of sweat
pour to the ground. A droplet spatters on his forehead and he rises from
the unknown depths of his sleep. He opens his eyes then squints. Is it
moonlight? Daylight? More droplets spatter on his body. He opens his
eyes wide. It’s
daylight. The treetops are rising high like they intend to meet the sky.
The world is smiling down upon him. He is free. He smells a fresh scent
of rotten leaves, bird and monkey droplets, and treesap. Yes. It is the
scent of freedom, animating. It isn’t the sickening smell of the cell.
Not stale cigarettes, sweat, urine, faeces, blood – he is free!

The chill of the morning sips through his ragged clothes. He sits up
and lowers his eyes along his body. His ashen skin is decorated with
clotted blood, dust and humus. His feet are sore. His stomach is
rumbling. It’s all okay. He is going home. He closes his eyes as if to
shut away the night.

Suddenly, a noise cuts through the silence. He poises his ears.
Pounding footsteps. Breaking sticks. Voices! Panic jolts through his
body. It grows to fear. Fear paves way for terror. The terror of being
caught. "You are going home," he whispers to himself. He creeps
backwards and crawls into a thick undergrowth. A stick worsens his
punctured wound on the thigh. He lies flat and presses his body against
the soft earth. Something under his stomach prods him: a stone perhaps.
But it’s all okay. Physical pain doesn’t last long.

The noise gets louder, footsteps nearer. The rustle through the
shrubs intensifies. Voices! He can’t make out the exact number of
pursuers. What slices his heart is the fact that they have halted near
his hiding place. So near that he can smell their familiar odour: the
sickening odour of prison. He’s afraid they can smell him too. They
spent so much time together that they seemed to be parts of each other.
But he has to break loose.

"He must be found," a voice snaps. The voice is familiar. It carries
an unusual air of presence and determination. "He is someone who
shouldn’t just leave alive. How, for heaven’s sake, did he escape? Find
him!"

The commanding voice stirs his own determination. He can’t be taken
back. He must go to his wife – and child.

"Find that man," another voice sounds, "he should be found. We are
not going back with bad news. Find him. Move on all of you. Scatter!"

Later, the sounds drone. He can only hear voices of the birds. They
are probably greeting each other or discussing the day ahead: planning
to shift into new nests or enlarging their territories. Suddenly, the
noise resumes, this time in a distance. He hears multiple movements
again. More men seem to have been mustered. The noise gets nearer.
Voices again!

"One group to the left. Others that side," the former voice resounds.

"Afande, we need to alert the village locals. Many are already in
their gardens. We can alert especially this area where the forest
connect to the swamp—"

"That’s not your office! Now do what I say. Sweep the forest. Shake
it till he drops to the ground. I’ll be here for the next thirty
minutes. After that I will be gone. Don’t hesitate to call me as soon as
the boil bursts. Now start. Search the forest inside out."

The heavens seem to tumble down on him, furious and avenging.
Avenging his innocence. Avenging his escape from torture and hard work.
He can see the shrubs opening their mouths to talk, to give him over.
Every leaf and stick above is mocking him; telling him they are jumping
away any second. That he was a fool to trust their safety. He feels
himself melting like a piece of ghee on fire. He shuts his eyes to
stifle the welling tears because if they flow, they will carry away hope
of seeing his wife – and child.

The thought of the child he’s never seen casts a scoop of pepper in
his eyes. He has to go home and see his child. He poises his ears again.
A crackling sound jars him with a start. Is the Afande getting to him?
He has to fight. Luck was with him when the pursuers did not sweep his
hiding place. And luck isn’t static. Now, he has to face the Afande!
Multiple foot stamps follow, then a scream. As he steals up, he hears a
voice say, "damn it!"

It’s the Afande’s voice. He watches as the Afande drops his gun and
fidgets to pull off his clothes. Ants! Ants have invaded the Afande. He
rises. Luck is knocking on his door. He has to open the door wide. He
creeps forward and reaches for a stone that he casts at the Afande. It
hits the Afande’s temple and he staggers before tumbling down.

He darts forward and grabs the gun. "Don’t move," he says to the
bleeding Afande, "and no noise otherwise I shoot." He is trembling. He
has never touched a gun. He has never shot a gun. He hates guns because
they are too commanding. Once its mouth faces you, you have to freeze.
You have to die to yourself and live for whatever it commands. Guns have
been a part of him for ten years but its presence in his hands is enough
to make him sweat. He is afraid he can touch the trigger and kill
someone or kill himself or alert the rest of his pursuers.

"Head down," he says, lowering his voice as much as he can. He drops
the horrible gun, swoops for a bigger stone and hits the Afande
unconscious. He then drags the unconscious Afande to his former hideout.
He pulls off the Afande’s clothes and puts them on. He dashes, ignoring
the boots. His feet are too sore to be in the Afande’s boots. Besides,
he’s never been used to shoes his whole life. He races, the hat on his
head almost covering his eyes.

A voice startles him from the left saying, "Afande! Anything yet?"
Footsteps sound towards him. Not again! In a moment he realises they’ve
mistaken him because of the clothes. He halts, thinking fast. He waves
them away and pats his crotch. He holds his hands like he is about to
unzip his trouser. He hurries behind a huge setaala tree and peeps. The
guard is looking away from him. He steals away. This time he is going
away. He is saying goodbye to his pursuers. He is saying goodbye to the
forest. He extends his thanks to the forest for being a fair harbour. He
thanks the birds, snakes, monkeys, worms and all the forest inhabitants
as well as trees for loving him, for supporting his cause.

Noises mingle with the continuos croaks in the swamp. First, chiming
of the church bell: persistent like the wedding bells. Then the blare of
car horns. The scent of freedom overwhelms the odour of the Afande’s
clothes. In a distance, he looks at blossoming maize stalks, flowering
coffee plants, dancing banana leaves, and houses. Hope whispers to him
louder. Loud enough to awaken his ears which seem to have been deaf for
ten years. The fair harbour had seemed unending but he is glad to be
winding it up. He races on. He is going home!

¨¨

The late evening welcomes him back to his home Buligi: the farming
village. Coffee Shambas shine like the midday sun. They shine so bright
that the fog on his eyes clears; fog that has covered his eyes for ten
years. He can see the landmarks of Buligi: a maize field here, a cassava
field there, a stretch of carpeted sweet potato leaves, and plantations
of banana plants. After what seemed like a decade of wrong turns he has
finally made it. He scrambled over rocks, taken paths in bushes to avoid
any prying eyes, walked uphill and down hill, now he is home.

As he strolls on in silence, his footsteps sound unnaturally loud. He
prefers noise to silence. He wishes for a swamp or a forest. There,
croaking frogs squabble and the noises occupy his troubled mind. He
hates silence because it stirs memories of the past. He wishes the past
to be a story that would never be told. He wishes the ten years erased
from his mind forever.

Fate, fate and fate! Fate has made him a thief. He hates thieves
because they harvest what they didn’t sow. A prisoner meant a thief,
that’s why he hated all prisoners. Now, he hates himself too because he
has stolen – for once. He had to steal a pair of trousers and a shirt
which had been spread for drying. He did so because the Afande’s clothes
would call for suspicion. But he has been a thief only for once. As he
meanders down the path, he promises himself he will take back the
clothes the moment he reaches home and changes into his own. Then he
will be a thief no more because he is a prisoner no more.

He branches off to another path that borders the Kibo River on the
right. The weather is threatening, heavens gloomy. How he wishes for
sunshine because then he would tell time by the level of his shadow. At
the junction where the river meanders down to Watta forest, he halts and
poises his ears. Drum beats. The sounds are coming from in front. He can
make out the beat and the tune. It’s a tune he last heard the day his
father died, just five days before fate came his way. Yes. The drums are
announcing death of a resident. Edna?

The thought jolts through his head like a bullet. Is Edna dead? Why
hasn’t she waited for him? He grips a nearby Jackfriut tree for support.
"Go on," he tells himself immediately, "Edna survived Watta forest. Edna
survived her fist experience of childbirth. How do you expect her to die
now?" He lets go of the tree and hurries on. As he rounds the long bend
of the river, he realises he is thirsty. He turns back to the Jackfriut
tree and plucks a leaf that he uses to draw water from the river. The
cold water revives his energy. He scoots round the meander to the main
tarmac road.

¨¨

Homesteads unfold ahead. Night has taken on its duty. He walks on,
blessing the full moon because he can tell it’s 9.00 p.m. by the level
of his shadow. He has not met anyone on the way; not even the young
lovers stealing through plantations. Yes, this is his home, Buligi,
always known to be asleep by 9.00 p.m. He is home.

The fact that he is home brings a smile to his lips. The
mud-and-wattle houses stand like they did ten years ago, all surrounded
by coffee trees and banana plantations. The compounds are so large that
they provide enough space for coffee drying. He notices, as he draws
near his house, that the drumbeats he heard earlier are no more. It
dawns on him that they were hallucinations from with in his brain.

Home is quiet. The sweet scent of flowering coffee plants tells him
it’s blooming season. If he hadn’t been in prison, he would have been
harvesting coffeebeans in a few months.

His neighbour’s home draws near. He halts, hating the moments ahead.
How will he pay back Mukasa’s bicycle which was taken that fateful
night? He walks on, surrendering to each moment as it will unfold. He
notices a flickering light move across the compound to the house.
Mukasa’s family always slept late. Goodness! The ten years of his
absence haven’t changed anything.

At the path to the compound he halts. The impulse to branch off and
see Mukasa is strong but he fights it. Edna should be the first person
in Buligi to see him. He watches two figures enter the house and the
door closes.

He walks on, the smile on his lips broadening. He is home. He
imagines himself knocking on the door, Edna waking up and asking who it
is in a low voice – soft and smooth. Edna’s voice is soft and smooth.
What will he say that won’t frighten her? He imagines Edna opening the
door, his child clinging to Edna’s skirt, Edna reaching for the kerosene
lamp and scrutinising his face, blinking her eyes as if make sure what
she is seeing is real—

He halts suddenly. Where is his house? The house is supposed to be
adjacent to Mukasa’s coffee shamba. He turns and stares at the shamba as
if to make sure it really exists. Yes it does, with two musizi trees
standing tall in the middle. He turns back. His eyes only meet overgrown
elephant grass almost towering over a dilapidated building.

He lifts his eyes to the full moon and curses it because it’s only
mocking him with a clear view of his desolate home! The house has no
roof. He can remember very well how he toiled to build his bride an
iron-roofed house. He can remember the wooden doors and windows that
cost him a year’s saving, and the mud-bricks he made out of his sweat.
Where is that home he built for his bride? Where is his bride? Where is
his child? Or is he lost? He walks five meters ahead. He notices that
matovu shrubs stand where the fish smoking place used to be.

He lowers himself down and cups his face. He crouches for as long as
he can’t tell.

A rustle through the shrubs startles him. He stays still. A sniff
cuts through the rustle. He wishes to die. He wishes to surrender to
whatever is moving. He wishes it to be a lion because he is better off
dead than realising Edna went away – married again perhaps.

As the rustle gets closer, he realises he doesn’t want to die. He
ducks down and holds his breath. The rustle sounds towards him. His
first desperate thought is to rush to Mukasa’s home for shelter. As he
gets up, he frightens the approaching creature and it squeaks as it
races away. A pig! He jumps up and stares at the dilapidated house
again. "Things have changed," he says as he hobbles back to Mukasa’s
home.

¨¨

"It’s me, Kato. Mr Mukasa, it’s Kato." He is in the doorway staring
at Mukasa’s startled face. "It’s Kato. I am back." Either Mukasa is dumb
or deaf or even blind. The light of the flickering kerosene lamp casts a
shadow across Mukasa’s left cheek. He notices that Mukasa is very old.
"It’s me, Kato. Don’t you remember me? It’s Kato your neighbour."

"Kato," Mukasa whispers, "Kato is dead. He was killed ten… he
disappeared—"

"Let me in, Mr Mukasa. I will explain."

Mukasa reaches for the lamp and scrutinises his face. "Kato," he says
but his voice is still a whisper. "Is it you? Where…why… how…" He
replaces the lamp and turns to his wife who has just emerged from the
bedroom. "It’s him. It’s Kato. He is alive. He is back!" He opens the
door wide and reaches for a bamboo chair.

"Get him water and food." Mukasa turns to his wife. "No, wait. A
gourd of Tonto first. He must be thirsty." He dashes past his wife to
the next room saying, "let me do it. Kato is back. He is alive."

"Yes I am alive. I am back." Kato smiles but the smile transforms
into a frown as he realises that Mukasa has avoided his question. He
stares at Mukasa’s empty chair.

"Now drink, you need this." Mukasa is back.

"Thank you, sir." Kato reaches for the gourd and gulps it down. "My
wife…" the brew chokes him and he coughs. He coughs so continuos that he
wakes the sleeping children in the next room. "I am sorry," he coughs.

"Here." Mukasa hands him a Tumpeco of drinking water. "Take this too.
You need it."

"Thank you, sir." He reaches for the Tumpeco and takes a sip. "My
wife…" the water almost chokes him.

"Here.’ Mukasa reaches for the food his wife has brought. " Eat this
food. You need it." He turns to the wife. "Leave us alone, Nabalongo.
You need your rest now."

"I will eat, Mr Mukasa but please tell me, is my wife… is my wife—"

"Your wife is fine. And your son too—"

"My son." He sighs like he has never sighed in ten years then jerks
off the seat. "My son… can I see him…can I see them? —"

"The food, Kato. Eat first."

"Yes." He sits down and attacks the steamed cassava and smoked fish.
Halfway between the meal he pauses. His wife is alive but is she still
single? "Is my wife single, Mr Mukasa?" he says between a mouthful.
Mukasa’s sudden facial transformation stirs an anxiety in his heart. The
anxiety borders on hysteria. He jerks up with the plate in his hands
then slumps back into the chair and it creaks. He averts his eyes from
Mukasa’s face and stares at the half-eaten food.

"Eat, Kato. Finish the food."

He picks a piece of cassava and nibbles on it. He tries to swallow
but it is too heavy to go down his throat. He takes a sip of the water.
It tastes bitter. "I was kidnapped," he says, staring at the half-full
Tumpeco. "I left her helpless. In labour pains! In the middle of Watta
forest —"

"Kato, you need to eat first. Your wife and son are well, and there
is much time for you to tell me everything. For now, eat."

"Where are they, Mr Mukasa? Tell me one thing, is she still single?
Will she accept me again? I’ve been in prison. Hell. I missed her. I
escaped for her. I managed because my love for her guided me. Those
damned men. They kidnapped me. I left her helpless… is she still single?
Is she still single?" He places the plate down.

"Kato, things have changed." Mukasa grits his teeth and sighs deep.
"Things changed. Children were born, children grew up, people died …
people … got married—"

"Is my wife married, Mr Mukasa?" The piece of cassava in Kato’s hand
drops as he jumps up and kneels before Mukasa. He listens to the
silence. It’s frightening. Stinging. Killing. Ripping his heart over and
over again. He trembles. His body heats up. Sweat breaks through his
skin. His breath quickens. The heart races. "Is Edna married?"

"Not yet, Kato." Mukasa helps him back on the chair. "You see, my
son, I wish I could tell you otherwise but you deserve to know. Edna has
waited till she could wait no more. Her wedding is pending."

Kato pats his ears. What Mukasa has just said is the loudest phrase
he’s ever heard yet he isn’t sure he’s heard it. It has to be repeated
before he can believe it but he is not sure he wants to hear it again.
He prefers death. He prefers being kidnapped and put in prison: locked
up forever. Deafness is better that he can never hear again but he has
already heard. Edna. Her wedding is pending. He wants to wake up and
realise it’s all a dream but there are no illusions. It is reality.
Mukasa is seated right opposite him and he’s just told him his wife’s
wedding is pending.

"Pending," he says, "pending." The one word is a machete slicing his
heart into two yet truth he has to face. "Pending." He lifts his teary
eyes to Mukasa. "Ten years. No communication, no…" Tears overwhelm him.
He cries. Immediately, he stifles the tears and says, "I don’t blame
her."

"She is the only person who never accepted your assumed death. She
always said you would come back. Always," Mukasa says.

"When is her wedding?" Kato asks. Things have really changed.
Everything has changed. He is afraid he is also changing because if
Edna’s wedding is pending— "When is her wedding, Mr Mukasa?"

"Soon. Today is Friday. She is getting married to a rich Moslem in
her home area. Her wedding is on Sunday. Kato, my dear son and friend, I
wish I could tell you otherwise but it’s the truth."

"Thank you, Mr Mukasa. I needed the truth. I needed it. I need it
just like I need to see her. Just to see my wife before her beautiful
face is robbed from me forever. To say sorry. To say sorry for a crime I
never committed and to tell her I escaped for her. To tell her I missed
her. That I love her. That I love both of them. And my son too. That I
will always love her. Where is she now? I want to go and see her in the
morning."

"Home, her parents’ home. She left a year ago. Not of her own choise.
Your relatives chased her from the land but they just left it untended—"

"I saw my desolate home already, Mr Mukasa. I saw it. My
relatives..." He doesn’t remember when he last thought of his relatives.
His relatives had hated him because of the attention he used to give to
his wife. They didn’t know what love was. They didn’t know Edna was
everything to him. And now, they don’t know he has lost everything
except the son he has never seen. "If only I can see her one more time,
and my son, it’s all I need. Not my relatives."

"I well, you have a right to – see her. Now, you need to rest."

"Rest is the right word." Sleep means nothing in this present
condition. "By the way, your bicycle—"

"Don’t mention, Kato. The bicycle went, but you are back. It’s all
that matters."

¨¨

Cockcrow finds him on his way. Mukasa’s brown suit is ill -fitting
but it will do. He hasn’t forgotten that he has to take back the clothes
he stole yesterday. He is aware of his scarred skinny body, shaved head,
and ashen skin. The samona jelly he applied hasn’t had the desired
effect because when he touches his face, scales peel off. Will Edna set
her eyes on him even one second? He is aware of his frail strength but
he has to move on. As he treads the hilly path bordered by Matovu shrubs
he realises he is not strong enough to let Edna go. In fact, he might
drop dead if Edna says goodbye.

The path to Edna’s home unfolds ahead like a burning fire to go
through. The early morning sun is breaking. He halts and watches a group
of sparrows spiral above him. They cross each other’s path – comforting
each other perhaps or making sure each is well. He longs to be one of
them. Then, he won’t be awaiting a larger crack on his heart because he
loves a wife whose wedding is pending. His knees melt. He squats along
the path. Why did fate come his way? Why was he ever born? And why did
he escape?

A mooing cow brings him back to himself. He gathers his strength and
stands up. He walks on. As he approaches the house, he wishes his legs
could be firm. He wishes his heart could be stable. He wishes there was
no water in his body so he couldn’t sweat. For once. Only and only for
once.

The face that first appears in the doorway is old and crinkled. The
owner of the face is holding a hoe. Edna’s mother! She stares at him,
mouth agape. The hoe in her hands drops. Another face emerges from the
kitchen. Edna’s young sister. She is winnowing a basket of fried
groundnuts. The basket drops the moment she sets eyes on him. She raves
the compound shouting, "ghost. Kato’s ghost!"

He stands still. More faces appear. More voices chorus, "Kato’s
ghost." Among the faces that appear there is a boy –ten years – if he
can guess. No mistake, his son! Clinging to his grandmother’s skirt. His
son: the child he had never seen. The child has Edna’s round face. "My
son, I am your father," he whispers. He wants to rush forward and pick
up his son.

Another yell stirs him. He turns. It’s not Edna. It’s Edna’s aunt. It
occurs to him that they’ve gathered for the wedding. Like so they did
when he was marrying Edna. He watches as more and more people swam in
the compound. His eyes roam. No Edna. Or is the wedding over? Maybe
Mukasa was mistaken. Maybe he was misinformed. Edna is already gone!

Edna surfaces like an angel who is visible only to him. She is clad
in a green kitenge, a matching scarf on her head. Her large eyes roll in
their sockets as she looks at him. They gleam a light in his eyes. The
light drowns the darkness he’s dwelt in for ten years. Edna. The round
face. The welcoming torso. He can only imagine the warmth that lies in
her embrace. She smiles: the smile that reveals the gap in her teeth,
the smile that mends the crack in his heart, the smile that erases the
past ten years from his mind. She is all he can think of. She is all he
can see. Edna, his bride, his wife and the mother of his son – but her
wedding is pending—

She is walking towards him, arms open wide. She is coming into his
arms. He is going to feel her again. She is going to love him again…

He is in her embrace. His tears dissolve in her kitenge. Her tears
dissolve in Mukasa’s suit. He holds her in an everlasting embrace. He
can breath again. He can live again. Edna is in his arms. He will never
let her go. He will never leave her alone. She lifts her beautiful face
and looks in his eyes. She says, "There is only one thing I want to do
now. I want to tell the whole world that my proposed wedding is
cancelled. My husband is back!"

¨¨

He wakes up with a ready smile stuck on his lips. The smile fades and
overwhelming tears flow. He is lying amid a clutter of prisoners. The
rag-like blanket that covers him only goes up to his waist. His legs are
chilled. A chesty cough escapes from one corner. It sparkles off
multiple coughs. He smells stale cigarettes, tobacco, urine, sweat – and
yes. The stench from the bucket in the innerroom is unmistakable. The
tinkle of the alarm bell jars him. A voice shouts, "Amuka twende
kazini!" More and more tears flow.